


Acts of Honour

by Zelos



Series: The Burial of the Guns [7]
Category: Animorphs - Katherine A. Applegate
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 04:17:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2053251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelos/pseuds/Zelos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war did not cost them <i>everything.</i> (Not yet.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acts of Honour

**Author's Note:**

> Something a little...happier, perhaps? A series of better moments after the war.
> 
> Dedicated to my wonderful RP group. Y'all are amazing.

<Helloooooooo? Anyone home?>

Marco flew aimless circles over the ruins of a particular neighbourhood. Or rather, one particular house. He must’ve looked pretty ridiculous, especially with the greasy paper bag hanging off his talons, but at least there were no Controllers taking potshots anymore.

Just paparazzi taking photographs. He lost them a few blocks out, but no telling how long that’d last.

<Gafinilan? Mertil? Are you down there?>

The house was in ruins. It looked like a Dracon beam (or a couple of them) cut through the house, and then squatters, looters, and the weather did the rest. The Martha Stewart-esque splendor had been reduced to rubble and rot, stinking of urine and smoke. No one was home.

Naturally. You’d have to be pretty insane to stay in sight when all hell broke loose. It didn’t mean anything. He hoped.

But he was two months too late and the trail had long since gone cold (although really, it was hard to get a moment to himself after saving the world. Marco’d swear that he had to give interviews in his sleep for at least two weeks). Even a wolf’s nose would be hard-pressed to find any trails in these ruins, old as they were.

<Mertil? MERTIL? Anyone—>

< _Aristh?_ > That was very faint.

 _Mertil!_ <Yeah, it’s me.> Marco belatedly remembered that the Andalites considered all of them _arisths_.  <I mean, it’s Marco. Can I come in?>

A long pause. <You may. You remember the entrance?>

<Yeah. Be right in.>

He banked and spiraled down into the ruins, found a spot relatively clear of debris and vermin droppings, and demorphed. Marco made his way to the far wall of the ruined kitchen, and after a moment, the secret door hissed open to the Andalites’ private quarters.

The final battle hadn’t affected the secret bunker, though it seemed…larger than he remembered. Then he remembered Rachel had done a little remodelling the last time they were here.

 _Guess they didn’t bother to fix the wall._ He wiggled his bare toes through Andalite grass as he picked his way through. Two Andalites looked up at his approach, and Marco quickened into a jog that stopped short.

Gafinilan looked _awful_. He was lying on his side, his gaunt features only exaggerated by how his skin hung off his massive frame. Marco knew little of Andalite physiology, but Gafinilan’s every joint looked swollen, a stark contrast against the wasting muscles. And while his stalk-eyes swivelled towards Marco at his approach, the blankness of the eyes made Gafinilan’s blindness evident.

<Marco?> Gafinilan’s voice didn’t sound much different, at least—sharp and not particularly welcoming. But his breathing seemed shallow; Marco assumed his demeanor was a front.

<Marco,> Mertil gave him a nod. <What brings you here?>

Marco closed the gap between them, trying to keep his horror from his face. “I…wanted to see if you were all right after…well, after everything went down.” It sounded less lame in his head.

<We’re fine. The damage is superficial and did not harm our dwellings. Our solitude has been undisturbed. In all this chaos,> Mertil glanced down at Gafinilan with one stalk eye, <no one would question if Henry McClellan did not return.> He sounded a little bitter.

Marco swallowed, gesturing at Gafinilan. “Has he been able to eat at all?” Then he stopped, belatedly realizing that he shouldn’t talk about Gafinilan as if he wasn’t there.

Mertil’s sidelong stare indicated he agreed.

<Very little,> Mertil answered after a moment, hand at Gafinilan’s flank. <He does not stand too much nowadays. Liquefied grasses only do so much.>

<It does not matter,> Gafinilan said. There was a…lull in his words that made Marco suspect heavy doses of that _illsipar_ root. Maybe that was all he ate nowadays.  <I will last days. Weeks at most. The hunger will take me if the disease does not.>

Marco flinched inwardly, but for once he kept his mouth shut. Well, sort of. “Well, that’s what I’m here for.”

Two very baffled Andalites stared.

Marco pasted a grin onto his face, holding out the greasy paper bag. It was still warm. “One last Mickey D’s before you go?” He made it sound casual, like Gafinilan was taking a leave of absence, not _dying_.

Gafinilan stared unseeingly. Then, finally, he began to laugh.

 

Marco had never seen anyone morph so slowly. Except for that time…well, those times…when one of them, or _all_ of them, nearly got stuck in morph. He remembered all too well the struggle of yanking back their DNA from the nothingness of Z-space.

But morphing took a lot of effort. It took strength, resolve, reserve. Gafinilan didn’t have much of that left. He morphed in spurts: first a leg, then his face, then another leg…et cetera, with lots of breaks in between.

At least Gafinilan seemed strong enough after he morphed. He even beamed at Marco (or Marco’s general direction. Perhaps it was just at the food). Even Mertil looked amused at his companion’s rampant enthusiasm.

They spoke little (two were busy watching, while the last was busy eating), but the Andalites didn’t seem to mind Marco’s company. Marco hung around, even well after Gafinilan demorphed. In fact, he lingered for hours until Mertil pointedly walked him to the door.

<Thank you,> Mertil said privately at the entrance.

Marco shrugged. Mertil gave him another look, the one that said _I know what you’re thinking._

It was hard to hide anything from four eyes.

 _What the hell_. “You sure he…” Marco waved his hands. “He could find another human home. Or even if you want _Andalite_ bodies…” Marco was sure Ax would find a way if he twisted Ax’s arm hard enough.

< _No._ > It brooked no argument.

Andalites and their damn honour.

<Let the people remember us as we were,> Mertil said, a little softer. <We have lost enough in this war.>

 _So have we_ , but Marco didn’t say it. All nightmares aside, at least he wasn’t stranded billions of light-years from home. At least his nearest and dearest were alive…mostly.

“I’ll find my way out,” Marco muttered. He began to morph.

< _Aristh._ > Marco looked back; Mertil paused awkwardly. <Thank you for coming, _Aristh_ …no, Marco.> Mertil flashed that strange, mouthless smile. <I suppose you are no longer an _aristh_. >

 _Haven’t been for a long time._ <See you around, Mertil.>

 

Marco visited again a few weeks later, after he was sure Gafinilan had died. He didn’t mean to actually _go in_ —people grieved differently, he knew that very well. Although observing without intruding was harder when Mertil had a fortified bunker to live in.

Mertil actually let him in after a little bit. Marco wasn’t surprised that Mertil had surveillance equipment, or that he was actually watching it. Marco tried to be surreptitious in his looking around, but he doubted he fooled Mertil for a moment.

“How do Andalites do, uh, funerals?”

Mertil gave him a long, sideways look. <We are buried. We have a ceremony, after which the body is returned to the earth, to the grass that feeds us.>

Marco stared at Mertil’s weak arms and tried to imagine him shovelling.

Mertil noticed the stare and made a rueful smile. <Yes. Out in the field, it is much less…elegant.> He curled his hands slightly. <Shredder.>

Marco opened his mouth. Closed it again. He’d offered, once. Mertil hadn’t taken him up.

As usual, Mertil seemed to have read his thoughts. <I prefer to stay.>

“I know. But…like I said. And I dunno if you noticed, but we’re a bit different than the Andalites.”

Mertil laughed. It sounded brittle in his head. <Do not mock me. I have seen your media, your news, even if I have not truly visited your world. You treat your _vecols_ no better than we treat ours. >

Again, ouch.

<I do not want to leave,> Mertil said quietly. <There are many memories here, and we have both spent our last moments as Andalite warriors in this place.>

 _Last moments…_ Marco glanced towards the stub of Mertil’s tail, and decided not to protest.

He tried to think of whether he has any places to honour like this. _Not really,_ he decided. His coping methods involved looked forward, not back; unlike Jake, he didn’t exactly sat around to brood about the glory days of war. He has limelights and paparazzi to deal with (and those were plenty dull on their own).

Funny, how life seems so much duller after the adrenaline rush of war. Wasn’t this what they had fought for?

<Besides,> Mertil added after a moment, in what Marco assumed was an attempt at levity, <I much prefer Andalite grass. Much tastier.>

…funny, considering Andalites couldn’t taste.

 

Marco said goodbye to Mertil before he left. As in, he detoured his flight en-route to Jake’s, thirty minutes before he left Earth for what he thought would be forever. Called out his farewells while flying over the wreckage of the house.

<You will not return,> it didn’t sound like a question at all.

<I want to.>

<The galaxy is a vast place.>

<Gee, thanks. Anyway…take care of yourself.>

<I am not helpless. Goodbye, Warrior Marco.>

<See ya around, Mertil.> He hoped, anyway.

Warrior. He liked the sound of that.


End file.
